The voice was cajoling, maddening, like Christy Clark talking about putting families first.
Take these weapons, it told me.
Seize the destiny for which you were born for.
But I am weak and they are so many, I whined.
You are, the voice consoled. But so were those who came before you. Where they were found wanting, you will reap chaos.
I took first the sure handle of the hatchet, then the cool heft of the three-pronged war pike.
What will you say? asked the voice.
Maraud! I bellowed, brandishing the hatchet and raising the war pike to the impudent heavens. Maraud! No prisoners!
OK, boo boo, remember our inside-voice talk, said my fiance as she dragged me away from an alarmed home-improvement store employee we'd been talking to about a new barbecue.
The employee had the look of the woman who would support legislation requiring a mandatory 45-day waiting period and a background check for those purchasing propane tanks since she was clearly dealing with an individual whose contents were already under pressure.
Well, the hatchet quickly broke in my inept chopper hands but the war pike - perhaps better known to civilians and competent gardeners as one of those weeding gadgets you step on - was very satisfying.
Since I missed the boat on Noah's whole hewers of wood and drawers of water deal, I'm at a loss operating anything more complicated than a toaster oven but the weeder was simple enough. Three prongs, three steps - stick the spikes in the ground around the offending plant; lever it out of the ground; use the pump-action lever to pop the weed off the end.
The pump action gave the whole weed-culling exercise a delicious survival-horror, Walking-Dead flavour.
If M. Night Shyamalan wants to make The Happening 2, he knows where to find me.
In the meantime, I'll be hunting the dandelions on my lawn.
Some people are green thumbs - I would be the whole fist.
Admittedly, dandelions are a first-world problem. In most rational contexts, random cheery bright flowers would be a cause to at least smile a little, perhaps jump and tap the heels, leprechaun style.
But put the same yellow piece of sunshine on any form of manicured grass and it's about as welcome as David Suzuki at a Stephen Harper barbecue (unless he happens to be on the grill).
No, it's probably worse - think Calgary Flame or Los Angeles King.
So, in that spirit, wheelbarrow in tow, weeder in hand, I began my assault on the dandelions one fine night. Three-quarters of the way through, one of my neighbours, whose lawn packs up every spring and heads to Augusta, Georgia to take part in the Masters, came over to commiserate.
You can pull those seven hours a day, 365 days a year, you're never going to get them all, she said.
Yep, it's a battle, I answered. Constant.
But I had the dandelions running scared, they wouldn't be coming back. This time it was different.
The next morning, I looked out the window. My lawn was covered with holes, a cackling crow - and even more dandelions than there were the night before, winking at me in the sun.
And that's just the front lawn.
